Put Your Slippers on Instead

According to my physician, who met with me for all of 15 minutes, I have "severe anxiety disorder" characterized by extreme nervousness, depressive episodes, and insomnia. Sadly, she opted to not give me Paxil or some equally sedating chemical cocktail. She did, however, refer me to a psychiatrist for some good ol' fashioned head shrinking. She also gave me sleeping pills, though not before recommending that I drink warm milk in an attempt to fall asleep. Not only is that the most disgusting proposition I've ever heard in my life, but one could reason that a person who hasn't had a decent night's sleep since April would have already tried every legal (and some illegal), over-the-counter remedy possible.

She also recommended that I stop drinking so frequently, which really isn't such a bad idea. As I continuously become increasingly nervous, guilt-ridden and socially anxious, it's more and more difficult to enjoy most social interactions. Adding booze to an already neurotic drunk dialer with verbal diarrhea is merely squirting gasoline on an already blazing fire. Recognizing my flaws, and crescendoing instability, I'm attempting to heed her advice. Not only should this, in theory, decrease the number of interactions I have to feel anxious about, but it should *hopefully* salvage the few interpersonal relationships I have that aren't entirely in ruins.

Since I have neither pharmaceutical grade anti-depressants nor Jamaican grade rum, I choose ice cream to drown my sorrows in. Rather than go out to seedy bars, meet men that are inevitably harmful to me, and drunk until my liver falls out, I plan to eat ice cream until I can feel no more. For an encore, I take an Ambien and pass out for 12 hours. It's a lot like boozing, but lacks the nasty morning after (read: dry mouth, throbbing head, waking up next to old, bald men whom I hate still wearing a thong which was only comfortable for 20 minutes, then braving the metro ride home with my tits half hanging out of what was, but is no longer, a sexy shirt). So far, the plan seems fool-proof. But what about increasing levels of thigh jiggle, you ask? For one, I easily imbibe 2,000 calories each week on liquor alone. And that's considering the fact that I drink 70 calorie rum and diet cokes. On top of that, there's all the food I eat whilst inebriated that I would never normally consume. Pizza, IHop, falafel, Tastee Diner and fries with either gravy or dutch mayo. I think that pretty much covers a pint of ice cream. Maybe two.

The only real downside I've discovered thus far is all this fucking extra time I have on my hands. This is the first weekend I can recall in many years when I did not go out or fuck someone or at least go shopping. I literally did nothing that was not responsible and productive. Apparently that takes a lot less time than being whorey and drunk. Who knew?

The goal here is to emerge with the capacity to form and maintain at least one healthy, fully functional interpersonal relationship. I have no idea how long such a process could take, but I think it'll be worth it. If I reshape myself into a person that I actually like again, then perhaps others will like me again too. I know that it used to be that way, I just forgot what it looked like. Slippers help you remember. And sweatpants. And most importantly, mint chocolate chip.